


Never Bet the Devil Your Heart

by spickandspock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Mild Gore, Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:40:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spickandspock/pseuds/spickandspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper had always been considered a morbid sort of child. She had built barriers against it, though, kept it at bay. Now, however, an impromptu dance with the devil had brought it back with a vengeance. And now, the devil wanted what he had claimed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Bet the Devil Your Heart

Molly Hooper was always considered a somewhat morbid child. Instead of shying away from dead animals, she would come closer, attempt to see which parts were which, where they went, and why. Even with her beloved pets, she wouldn't cry upon their demise, but rather examine them for what may have caused their untimely expiry. Her mother always berated her thoroughly for such behaviour, claiming it was "unladylike" and "disgusting", and she "should at least try to be like the other young girls." She never liked the other young girls, though. She found them far too…girlish for her liking. For example, their irrational fear of spiders. Honestly, she thought, what was the point of fleeing from a spider? The spider never did any harm to them. It only bit when it felt threatened, and it never directly killed anything, but rather wove a web that trapped and killed its prey, then fed off the remains. In her eyes, the spider had never done anything wrong, yet its ghastly appearance and unsettling movements caused it to be one of the most feared invertebrates. Personally, she was rather fond of arachnids. Another highly unladylike characteristic, according to her mother.

Another odd trait was her reading habits. Most children of the time delighted themselves in meaningless drivel, happy little stories that taught no real lesson and had no true plot. She, however, had always favoured the classics of literature. Shakespeare, Leroux, Austen, Brontë , Hugo, Doyle, Dickens, Hawthorne, and so forth and so on. Her favourite author, however, was always Poe. Little Molly would spend hours reading his black tales, delighting herself in his bone-chilling horrors, nearly weeping at his dark, heart-rending poetry. She found herself intrigued by this darkness, this odd place where nothing was truly wrong, yet nothing was truly right. She also found herself afraid of it, however, and quite terrified by her feelings toward it. So she shut it away, deciding to content herself with other books and stories until she could properly control herself, donning a sweet, mousy exterior as a sort of protection against it.

Then, twenty-five years later, she had met Jim. She, still faithfully wearing her mousy shell, hadn't attracted many boyfriends through her school and university years, and the ones she had managed to wrangle into a few dates were always obnoxious, arrogant jerks that she never went out with again. Jim was different, though. Standing a few inches taller than she did, he had seemed sweet and caring, the perfect gentleman. She had to admit, though, she was slightly concerned about his sexual preferences, especially after Sherlock's deductions. He had always seemed just a bit too sweet, borderline feminine, not to mention his almost obsessive grooming habits (she had always been concerned about dating a man who spent more time in front of the mirror than she did). The dog tags he always wore round his neck also raised the question, but when she asked about, he had given her the answer that they had belonged to his brother, and he wore them as a sort of memorial. She had smiled at that, given him a sympathetic kiss on the cheek, then hurriedly left the room. That night, she broke up with him, telling him it just wouldn't work out, and she was so sorry. Something almost alarming had flashed in his eyes, but he gave her a sad smile and a nod, kissing her forehead a bit harder than necessary before walking off into the night.

One week and three days later, Molly was informed that her ex-boyfriend, Jim from IT, was really James Moriarty, consulting criminal and psychopath. She was shocked at first - very much so - but then the pieces started to click together in her mind. His queer possessiveness of her, despite the fact they had only dated three times; the odd flash of dark annoyance in his eyes whenever his personal phone would ring or he would receive a text (really, his love of the Bee Gees should had given her a clue to his nefariousness); the way he first kissed her, gently at first, then all teeth and tongue, nibbling and biting her bottom lip and tongue, greedily and hungrily plundering her mouth, making her feel dirty yet thrilled, as if he had claimed her in some peculiar, irrevocable way; the general air of something more, something more malevolent and strange than his outward femininity and saccharine demeanour.

Yes, there was something about Jim from IT that hadn't set right, but she had been so pleased with finding someone to be with (and, to be honest, finding someone to potentially make Sherlock jealous with) that she hadn't really paid much heed to the signs. Now, upon reflection, Molly nearly kicked herself for missing all of this. However, a small part of her, the part that she had buried deep since childhood, thrilled at the thought of not only dating the man who Sherlock had referred to as "the Napoleon of Crime", but also breaking it off with him. She had taken control of this genius, this mastermind, and God, was it good. She had unwittingly danced with the devil, and then left him, and the utter joy and exhilaration it sent coursing through her veins was frankly frightening. She revelled in it though, delighting in the darkness, both figurative and literal. Her entire frame trembled with it as she lay on her bed, mind whirling and heart thumping quickly in her chest.

Despite her new-found elation, a frown creased her brow. This was wrong. This wasn't the innocent, naïve, child-like woman she had assumed the role of. This wasn't Mousy Molly, the living doormat. This wasn't the girl without a spine. This wasn't the little porcelain doll that people always tried to break. This wasn't her. She couldn't act like this, take so much delight this new information. No. That would break down the barriers she had built so long ago, tear them down and rip them out and let the darkness, that unexplored, frightening realm of thought and action she had cowered in the midst of, would come bounding back with a vengeance, taking root in her soul and slowly growing until its thorny tendrils wrapped around her heart and mind, injecting its black venom and corrupting her until nothing remained of the creature she once was. Until nothing remained but the all-consuming night. But…hadn't it always been there, in some form? Her love of dead things, her career choices, her friends (or lack thereof), her bleak days when she wanted nothing more than to lash out at those around her and demolish them with her words, just as they did to her? Hadn't the darkness found a way to manifest itself already, albeit in a less intrusive way? Had it managed to weave into her façade, unnoticed by all? Or was it now toying with her mind in an attempt to trick her, confuse her, weave her in its great web then devour her? Or perhaps she had simply gone mad, been driven over the edge by the recent events and her unknowing part in all of it. After all, she had provided an access point for Jim to get to Sherlock and John, and they had recently been in a life-threatening situation. Mayhap the guilt had driven her mad? Or it might all be a game, just a dangerous labyrinth of dangerous feelings, grotesque thoughts, and false corners? What if it was all of the above? Molly shook her head vigorously, as if attempting to rattle the thoughts from her brain. No, that simply couldn't be! She could recall all too vividly the feel of Jim's lips on hers, his warm hands on her back, her arms. She remembered the complete shock and initial horror at his true identity and the situation he had placed them all in. Even if nothing else in this shimmering world of doubt and fear existed, he did, and that was reassuring in a strange way. He, the man who had started all of this, was real; there was no doubt about that. There was also no doubt that he had indeed been the trigger for all of these thoughts and emotions, and a small part of her wondered if that made him the spider in the centre of the web, the spider that planned on consuming her, dragging her down into inky depths, never to return again.

This train of thought was getting her absolutely nowhere. Even if this was an illusion, a fantasy world, it would do her a fair bit of good to retain at least an iota of sanity. Her eyes quickly flickered to her bookcase, falling to rest on a large volume, gold lettering on the front spelling out "The Complete Tales & Poems of Edgar Allan Poe". It would be good - so good - to divulge in her vice, if only for a bit. After all, if the darkness had already taken her, it would make no difference, and if it hadn't, it would do so soon. She saw no way she could truly lose.

Molly propelled herself off the bed, crossing quickly to the bookcase and jerking out the book, a small shiver of exhilaration dancing across her nerves just from holding the tome. Turning back to the bed, she reclined against the headboard, fingers quivering with trepidation and anticipation as she flipped the pages to the first story. She soon grew lost in the stories, brown eyes flitted across the pages, mind drinking in the words. She paid no heed to the clock ticking ever-steadily onwards through the wee morning hours, nor did she take note of any noises around her. All focus and attention was riveted on the book as she moved from story to story, not exactly shying from the darkness there, but not fully embracing it either. O, what a tangled web was weaved…

Molly grimaced as she slowly turned her head from side to side and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to work out the kinks and aches that had made themselves present during her night of reading. At some point in time, she had fallen asleep, still hunched over her book, fingers wrapped protectively around the sides as if she were afraid someone would come to snatch it from her. Regretfully, she placed it on her bedside table, stretching further as she stood, then padded off into the living area. Her psyche still hovered in that controversial grey area, the space between darkness and light, between evil and good. Surprisingly, she felt…right. The indulgence had been quite nice, she decided, not to mention much needed. Now, perhaps she wouldn't allow herself to be bowled over by Sherlock Holmes any longer. Perhaps she would rebuke him when he came into the morgue later in the day? Perhaps she would turn him out and keep him out until he had the proper paperwork to obtain whatever he needed? Perhaps she would finally take a stand against the man who haunted her dreams and ripped at her heart? Yes, she concluded with a small smile, Molly Hooper was not going to be pushed around any longer.

Making her way into the sitting room, Molly clucked her tongue, patting a hand against her thigh in an attempt to draw her tabby, Toby, from whatever hiding place he was currently occupying. A frown replaced the smile when he neglected to emerge. Toby had always come when called; surprising behaviour from a cat, but good nonetheless. In fact, he was constantly by her side or in her lap, begging to be petted and coddled, twisting round her ankles and nearly causing her to fall on several occasions, all in an attempt to be succoured. That he was hiding from her and refused to come when called caused worry to build in her stomach. If nothing else, she did have quite an affinity for cats, with their lean, graceful forms and their cool, calm demeanour. She refused to dwell on how this may or may not have carried over into her preference in men.

With a sigh, Molly strode into the kitchen, knowing the scent of food would draw Toby, even if nothing else would. As she bent over to retrieve a can of food, however, she noticed the shadow of something swaying outside. The frown etched itself deeper into her features, and she absently noted she would have to clean whatever flecks of opaque liquid was on her window. Quickly, Molly opened the back door and peered outside before recoiling in horror and revulsion. If her suddenly dry throat could have produced a scream, she had no doubt it would have woken the entire city. As it were, she barely had enough strength to stand, much less made any sounds.

Swinging from the gutter like some gruesome piece of décor was her beloved Toby, a noose around his obviously broken neck. One of his large, green eyes had been gouged out, and blood oozed from the empty socket, dripping down onto the pavement below. The other eye, glassy and devoid of life, stared at her eerily. A crude representation of gallows had also been scratched into his chest, the fur around it turning dark, the white turning to crimson and the black turning blacker as blood spilled from the wound. The utter gore of the sight, enhanced by their close friendship, caused her knees to buckle, and she sank to the ground, eyes transfixed on her darling cat. Belatedly, she realised the stuff on her window was the cat's blood. Her stomach churned, and she struggled to fight the urge to be sick. The awful and sudden demise of her close companion had left her dazed and reeling, yet that grisly curiosity she had possessed since childhood gripped her, fuelling her until she found strength to stand, then stumble over next to the poor creature. Once again her gorge rose, and once again she pressed it down, ignoring the distinct and ghastly scent that wafted up to her nostrils in favour of inspecting the thing more closely.

She noted there were no marks around the hollow socket, but there was a laceration at the back of it. Her medical training along with her common sense told her the eye was stabbed with a sharp object, most likely a pocket-knife, then twisted and yanked out. Molly shuddered, but carried on, observing the snapped neck (caused from the abrupt hanging, her mind informed her), and the image engraved on its chest. The amount of blood told her the animal was most likely snatched, then hung, then mutilated. These hideous conclusions chilled her, but despite her terror, she managed to run back inside to grab a knife to cut the beast down and gently lay it on the ground. She would give it a proper burial later. For now, she had to decide on what to do.

Molly certainly couldn't go to the police about it; after all, it would most likely be considered run-of-the-mill gang violence, or at the very least would suggest someone held a grudge against her and decided to take it out on her pet. It wouldn't constitute an investigation, nor would anything be done or said, bar a few sympathetic words. She would most certainly not turn to Sherlock either. For one, he probably hated her, or at least held some animosity towards her for giving Jim the access he needed. Aside from that, he would undoubtedly be able to deduce her bleak state, so to speak. He deduced everything, with those clever eyes and that sharp mind and barbed tongue. No, no, she couldn't risk her dirty little secret being revealed. Who else could she turn to, though? No one. No one but herself. Even as the thought crossed her mind, something niggled at the back of her mind. Something important. Something…familiar. Not with the predicament she found herself in, but rather the way her animal had been dispatched. The missing eye, the gallows, the rope…There was something startlingly familiar about the whole thing. For the life of her, however, she couldn't think what. As far as she knew, she had bore no witness to any past mutilations of the sort. She had seen no films or television programmes depicting such violent acts. She hadn't read anything that-

Oh.

The realisation flooded her, cold and dreadful. She had. Oh God help her, _she had._

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP (work in progress), though I do plan to update weekly/bi-weekly, if all goes well.


End file.
